


sweat out the fever

by feralphoenix



Category: Yggdra Union
Genre: Gen, Self-Destructive Behavior, Serious Illness, Tsundere Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are stupid stupid stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweat out the fever

It took a month’s worth of careful maneuvering and two days’ hard continuous battle for the bandits’ lair—the very last—to be exterminated; all that work kept them on edge. Many who had been a part of Gram Blaze remembered that these men had once fought under the banner of Pandra’s resistance, and had known better than to expect anything but a hard fight, because there were some that just _would not_ accept a carrier of Brongaa’s blood on the throne, whether he governed well or not. 

Nessiah was the most on edge of all of them, but after the incident last year, that was only to be expected; for him, and for the army, it was the final closure. This would bury what had happened, and be the final prevention for anything else like it.

Leon had his worries, too; Elena may have been well-protected in the middle of Zilva’s unit, but in the end she was still at some risk, and this was her first battlefield. Knowing from whence his bad temper stemmed, his knights tolerated it better than they ordinarily might have.

But in the end it all went without incident—once the bandits were all accounted for, the Imperial Army sprung the trap, and Gulcasa ended their futile efforts to counterattack with spectacular violence. These people had hurt someone dear to him, they had threatened his citizens, and after all the time they had gone on generally being a thorn in his side, he had had more than enough. And every one of the bandits perished against the backdrop of Brongaa’s fire.

Everyone returned to the capital afterward, confident in a job well done.

And if anyone had noticed that Gulcasa’s eyes were unusually bright, they mistook it for pride.

Three days after their return, the Emperor collapsed, and was confined to his bedchamber thereafter. His breathing was noisy and pained, his fever was dangerously high, and his body was fickle, only complying with Gulcasa’s attempts to move when it suited it.

“You _fucking idiot,”_ Leon snarled, “are you trying to kill yourself? How many times is it going to damn well take before you learn your limits?”

Gulcasa looked up at him with something that would probably have been reproach if his eyes weren’t only barely focused. 

“We had to be sure,” he retorted, his voice remarkably steady. And then he shuddered. “Leon, your hands are freezing.”

“Tch.” Glaring off in the opposite direction, Leon removed his hand from Gulcasa’s forehead; it wasn’t as if his fever had dropped any since the last time he’d checked, anyhow. He didn’t need to risk scalding his palm any longer trying to confirm it to the last damn degree when there were doctors for that.

He didn’t need to hover, either, when the rest of the army was already busy doing so. Luciana and Aegina were the most common visitors; Nessiah and Emilia had taken up temporary residence in Gulcasa’s room, and as far as Leon could tell were nursing him constantly.

The problem was that no one actually talked about how the young Emperor was faring, just sat around looking grim; if Leon actually wanted to know how his friend was coming along, he had to go in and take a look for himself.

So he did.

Once or twice a day.

As the days passed, Emilia seemed to be asleep more and more often during those visits, and even Nessiah was visibly starting to wear down—to the point where he actually started snapping at Leon when he came asking.

“There are no significant changes. The medicine is helping him weather it, but weathering it is all we can do. His Majesty’s illness is less of an actual illness and more of his body attempting to reject its demon blood after being forced to believe it was human for most of his life. It will take him a few more years to adapt completely, and the strain of overusing his abilities _always_ carries the risk of a relapse. All I can do, as I have said over and over, is lessen the harshness of the symptoms, and watch him cry from the pain in his sleep—the only time he is ever honest about how bad this is. Now _go away,_ and the next time you come here to be told the exact same thing, I will burn the words into your skin so that you won’t forget them so easily.”

And Nessiah slammed the door shut in Leon’s face.

Grumbling curses under his breath, Leon shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked off, staying away for a whole two and a half days this time.

In the end, though, he decided that having to dodge a few spells was easier to deal with than the silent gloom of Castle Bronquia, and made his way up to Gulcasa’s rooms again, peeking around the door suspiciously.

Emilia was curled up on one end of the sofa with a teddy bear in her arms, cheek pressed up to the armrest; Nessiah was also curled up in a chair, looking haggard, and the idiot who was supposed to be lying down was draping a blanket over the prophet’s shoulders.

Leon entertained the thought that perhaps Gulcasa had actually gotten better by now, but when the redhead turned to look at him, his face and throat and what Leon could see of his chest were still covered in a vague flush.

“Get back to bed,” he growled.

“Who died and made you my keeper?” Gulcasa replied flippantly, but there was no real force behind the words as he made his way towards his desk, his steps weaving only a little. “I can’t stay asleep anymore, and this crap is just going to keep piling up if nobody does anything about it.”

“So make Baldus and Eudy do it, birdbrain.”

“They’re busy rescheduling audiences and sorting out all the little problems. I’m not that bad off. The fever’s even going down,” he said pointedly. “So either help me sort this or leave. And either way, keep your voice down—if you wake those two up, I swear, my first act when I get better will be to pound your ass into the dirt in the practice courts.”

Leon trudged over to join Gulcasa, but stared at him instead of taking a seat in the other chair.

Gulcasa reached across the desk for a quill, but paused midway and looked up at him. “What?”

“You’re a fucking moron,” Leon snapped, and sat down.

Gulcasa managed to hold up for a little under an hour before his eyelids started to flutter, his breathing to roughen. His grip on his quill slowly went slack, and after a few moments it dropped to the desk; Gulcasa leaned forward as if to support his weight on his forearms.

“You’re done,” Leon said flatly. Gulcasa’s face was getting redder by the second, and even just from sitting next to him, Leon could tell that his fever was rising sharply; it was like his body was starting to radiate heat.

It was a sign of how bad Gulcasa probably felt that he didn’t argue when Leon dragged his chair back and hauled him to his feet; he just leaned obediently against Leon’s shoulder and let himself be half-carried to the bed. For a few moments, Leon considered dumping him on the mattress unceremoniously, but decided against it; it was with care that he helped Gulcasa rest back.

(He was glad that Nessiah and Emilia weren’t awake. He had a reputation to uphold, and that reputation had it that he was only ever gentle with Elena.)

“I’ll go get a wet towel or something,” he announced.

It took a bit to actually get his hands on one, and by the time he returned with it, Gulcasa was lying on his side across the bed, curled up, clutching the sheets with both hands. His long hair streamed out over the mattress behind him, and he’d peeled off his shirt, which was hanging at the edge of the bedspread, about to fall off. Droplets of sweat were standing out on his chest and upper arms.

As it transpired, Gulcasa was shaking too badly to towel himself off, so Leon did it—begrudgingly, and scowling all the while. At least he’d thought to bring a bucket of water along with the towel, which he dunked in said bucket, folded, and laid across Gulcasa’s shoulder and back as he collapsed into that loose sideways fetal position again.

“This sucks,” Gulcasa said hoarsely. His voice came out as a weak whisper.

“So get better.”

“I’m _trying.”_

“You’re knocking yourself out playing with fucking papers. It doesn’t look like you’re trying to _me.”_

Gulcasa didn’t answer. Leon sat down on the side of the mattress, back to him, and crossed his arms, slouching forward and planting his elbows on his knees.

“…I hate this.”

Leon glanced over his shoulder. Gulcasa had closed his eyes, and Leon had the sneaking suspicion that something other than sweat was causing the faint glint under his lashes.

“Did you even believe all that stuff you said to the townspeople back when we were fighting the damn revolution? About weakness not being a sin and all that crap.”

“It’s fine for _them._ I can’t afford it. Not when I have to protect everyone.”

Leon scowled. “So who’s gonna protect them if you keel over?”

Gulcasa didn’t answer. He looked nothing like the executioner of all those bandits, nothing like the proud Emperor of Bronquia; he looked nineteen and miserable and sick. And Leon recognized Garlot under all the harshness and the stress and the ego and the desperation.

“Just get better, you idiot. You’re gonna wear everybody out chasing after you.”

“…Yeah.”

It was a little embarrassing, hearing Gulcasa address him in that weak and obedient voice. He wanted to snap for the idiot to save that kind of talk for Nessiah and the girls, but decided against it.

Instead, he stood up, shoved his hands back into his pockets, and made for the door.

“Leon.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn. _“What,_ redhead?”

“Thanks.”

Leon gave a noncommittal grunt in response and stalked off.


End file.
